Reminding myself I still write

Because I need a reminder from time to time that there's more to life than charts and graphs.  Don't we all, right?

So two events coming up in the next week:
Indoor Voices by 826LA, a reading series by the great people at 826 where myself and a few other people with too much spare time will be reading/speaking the hell out of some poetry.

Also:
Word Salad LA, a monthly storytelling event that's $5 to get in (only $5!) and treats you to 7 sexy writers telling you stories about how interesting their lives are.  It's 10 minutes a piece, which makes the whole event last a really kind of convenient amount of time
8pm,

The Talking Stick

1411 Lincoln Blvd.

Venice, CA 90291

It will actually be my first foray into the storytelling universe and we'll see how that goes.  Also, it's the explanation why I wrote a blog post.  Because I gave them this blog as my website so I need to put up the illusion that I still have a pulse.

So how about that blogging?

I'd really like to do a statistical analysis of my intentions.  For example, I frequently intend to go to the gym.  But I have a few dozen rolls that testify to the strength of that intention.  I also frequently intend to better myself with a hefty piece of literature.  And I have several completed video games that show my progress towards betterment.

Then there's this blog.  And the three ones I had before it.

I think there's an expiration date on my enthusiasm that corresponds directly to the difficulty of the task and the frequency with which I'm expect to do it.  Let's see if we can regress this.

Time before failure = B0 + B1(difficulty) + B2(expected frequency) + B3(level of self-doubt) + B4(amount of sex I'm getting) + B5(Amount of work I'm putting off) + B6(Whether the task involves the verbs 'blog' 'tweet' or 'facebook').  

And something something p-values.  I hate my life right now, that's what I'm trying to say with this post.

Anyway, I'm gonna try and jump start this thing like a failing marriage.  And like a failing marriage, I'll probably cheat on it with other blogs.  Or something.  Metaphoric capacity has been replaced by regressions in my brain-space.

More later.

$40 famous

That's right, boys and girls.

I'm a published author.

More direct link: Anthony's Room

How you like them apples?

I mean, to be fair, I was published once before.  But that didn't earn me any money and is therefore not worth mentioning.

Just kidding.  Money isn't everything.  It just separates the successful from the...bloggers.  BOOM! Take that, Huffington Post.  And me.

So this is kind of exciting.  It's at least a little shot in the arm for my publishing attempts.  I feel confident enough to pay $15 of the money I just made to enter a writing contest I definitely won't win.  Don't worry, a few more crushing defeats and I'll be back to self-righteous posts about sadness.

GO TEAM ME!

Bittersweet tastes like sick

God, I hate all this bittersweet drama in movies nowadays.  Not because it's badly done.  Because badly done bittersweet ends up looking something like this:

OH MAN, I'M SO PRETTY, BUT, OH, MY HEART!

Fuck you, Justin Timberlake, nobody thinks you have human feelings.  Celebrities operate in a realm of superhuman emotions, where their problems are exquisite delights for us ugly commoners.

No, what I mean is shit like Crazy Heart and 500 Days of Summer.  The kind of stuff that is specifically engineered to make you feel absolutely miserable.  But it's okay! They're SMILING at the end.  They got absolute fuck-all of what they wanted, but hey, ain't that just the way life is?

No, fuck you, Hollywood, I want the best job, the best family and I want to be the smartest and most talented person in the universe all without putting any real emotional investment or effort into anything.

I'm starting a new genre.  It will be called "Screw you, I get everything".  I will film the protagonist breezing through life with girls throwing themselves at him and Fortune 500 companies chasing after him with lifetime contracts.  Banks will error in his favor, always.  It will never rain on his parties, his outdoor excursions or his parades, because there will be parades, the man will have however many parades he damn well pleases.

Even better, he will never want anything he can't have.
He will take what is given to him, shit-eating grin about it.
When people bump him in the street, he will wonder at how the stranger knew that he wanted to be bumped exactly that way at exactly that time.
When another man steals his girlfriend and fills his harddrive with videos of them having sex, the man will sit and watch every video marveling at how perfect a way this was to fill an afternoon.
When he's fired, he didn't want the job.
When he's bankrupt, he'll think about how unimportant money is.
When he's shivering starving in the street,
He'll smile,
Nod his head,
And say
"This is just what I wanted."
Dramatic music.
Fade to black

I hate movies.

This is why we write

Inner life is one of those things.  A thing that's so all-encompassingly important, yet you can't touch it, you can't taste it and you only see flashes of it in the drawn-out silhouettes of your dreams.

We can measure brain waves.  Oh yes we can.  But it doesn't mean a damn things, it is a paint-by-numbers approximation that, yes, red goes here, sometimes, in the right conditions.  It's not the magnetism of our blood.  It's not the radiation in our veins it is painfully unreal.

I guess what I mean is you can think whatever the fuck you want and it's okay.  Because on the outside, you are still white boy age twenty six smiling surely.  I mean, if you're me.  If you're not me, the overlay might get a bit more problematic.  Our faces are like burqa, honestly.  More than that, because sometimes you can't even see our eyes.

It is 2 AM and I can't sleep, my head like an inflatable mattress, it's never comfortable too full.  I need to open the valve and catharse.  Is that a word? Verb form of catharsis? The internet is no help here and I'll be damned if I turn to the OED.  Bootylicious? Really? I mean, I know no one uses you anymore, but this is not the way to get attention.  It's like the loser kid at school smoking pot to be cool.  Then going on to major in English and History and eventually go to Hopkins.

See what I did there?

Can't let an entry go without insulting myself.

(This inanity brought to you by David Oshinsky, who recommended that everyone write 300 words a day.  Don't worry.  This kind of can-do inspiration usually wears off after a couple days.)

The effects of rejection

So, let's get back to the writing stuff.  If I wanted a livejournal, I would have opened a livejournal.  No, this is Blogger, it's held to a higher standard.

Now, I've been rejected so many times from so many different magazines that I've started trying to guess what the rejection will say.  How will they start, with the bland sort of

"I hope this finds you well"

Or will they tell me how incredibly small my chances were of getting accepted in the first place

"We receive so many submissions"

Will they soften the blow?

"And while your submission is excellent"

Or will they just go at it

"This is not what we're looking for"

Will they wish me well?

"We wish you luck in your future endeavors?"

Or will they do something like

"Cheers!
- The Drabblecast Team"

Yeah, that last one was for real.  Cheers! You're rejected.  It's like breaking up with someone and nudging them going "Good knowin' ya, eh?"

Or nice while it lasted or something like that.

Anyway, one of the side effects of rejection is acceptance.

I got accepted to be published in Underground Voices Magazine, which is not so much a magazine as it is a website.  But it's something! It's $40 of something.  That's right, it's my first time getting paid for my writing.  I'm gonna go spend that money on booze and drugs.  Just like a real artist!

Another side effect of rejection is this:
"Dear Mixer Magazine,
  I'm not going to lie to you.  This story will be published someday by someone.  That someone could be you.  That's the opportunity I'm presenting today, the opportunity to publish this story.  Think about how you'd feel if later on in life you woke up, had your morning coffee and set about reading your daily intake of literary magazines and suddenly BAM! There's my story.  Printed in a magazine that is most definitely not yours.  How would you deal with the regret?

  So do yourself a favor.  Don't live a life filled with regret.  Publish this story."

A writer's apathy is a fearsome thing.

Aggressive impersonality

There is something aggressively impersonal about online classes.

The drop down box says I can laugh
Raise my hand
Applaud
Or agree.

The professor can deny my request to speak.

If this is where higher education is headed, count me out.

Actually, don't.  Now I want to be a professor even more.  I can give an hour of lecture from my couch and get paid six figures.  Cha-ching!

My stars and garters

That expression is peachy keen.  I just watched the last bit of X-Men 3, which is actually directly related to my travel blogging.  On the flight back, I watched "The Fighter", which I mistook for "The Wrestler", thinking I was watching a movie that everyone had recommended.  I also watched the first half of X-Men 3 and was thoroughly unimpressed.  But some latent masochism in me made me watch the rest of the movie.

Beast says, while flying into the final conflict with the big bad guy and almost certain death: "My stars and garters".

Sometimes I think the people who write these big budget movies are just constantly drunk.

Anyway, I wanted to post a quick update to show I am still breathing.  Grad school has started, and with it a dizzying amount of social interaction.  I never realized one could actually have trouble hearing themselves think.  But after 8 hours of telling people where I'm from, what do I do, what's my goals, I needed to flee the room just to have a few inane thoughts to myself.

More to come.

Portugal Day 5: Why Couchsurfing is the most amazing thing in the world and you are incorrect for thinking otherwise

So I spent my last day in Portugal running up and down hills, which is essentially how I spent every other day in Portugal.  Technically it wasn't my last day, today is.  But today I went to the waterfront, sat down and found everything else I wanted to do today suddenly become a lot less interesting.  So here I am.  Writing a blog.  Because that's what first tier tourism is all about.  Doing the same thing in a different place.

I went to Sintra, which is a little city outside of Lisbon and home to one of the most elaborate, confusing castles I've ever seen.  This one, right here:

The picture doesn't do it justice, but in there are essentially three styles of castle: Arab, Medieval and Gothic-esque.  It's called the Palacio Nacional de Pena and was built to be the summer home of King Ferdinand II in 1842.  So, a kind of new castle, all things considered.  Apparently, it was home to the first indoor bathroom in Portugal.  High-tech, y'know.

I should actually say we went to Sintra, not because I feel royal today, but because I was picked up from Lisbon, driven to Sintra and guided up the hill by a Couchsurfer who turned out to be the nicest man alive.  He not only inundated me with Portuguese history, he guided me around the whole of the park around the palace, which consists of stuff like this:

And this:

So.  Valuable guide.  The whole park cost 14 euros, which made it essentially theme park price.  That's why I felt entitled to climb a few piles of rocks and whine that there was no cotton candy.

The second picture is of an old Moorish fort called, Castel Do Mouros.  It's much more my style, as the Pena Palace (Which translated to Pain Palace, ha ha ha ha ha) is a bit too modern, a bit too clean, a bit too full of tourists smelling like suntan lotion and cultural ambivalence.

Castel Do Mouros is like "No, screw you, there are stairs and they are steep and uneven and you just have to suck it up." Just like the Moors.

Back in Sintra, we had some tasty pastries.   One is called a Queijada, which is a kind of cookie filled with a cheese-related sweet mixture and the other is called a Travesseiro which, from what I can tell, is made out of crack cocaine.  It's flaky and sugary on the outside and filled with this sweet nutty goo that I wanted injected directly into my veins.

If that wasn't enough, the couchsurfer asked if I wanted to see the coast.  There's only one answer to that question and so we were off.  Within fourty minutes we arrived at the most western point in Europe.  Face with the full majesty of the Atlantic unfurled before me like a second sky I immediately put my thumbs in the air and said:

"Wassup America!"

Later, we went back to the couchsurfer's house and he cooked a really traditional Portuguese dish called Bacalhau à Brás which apparently means Bacalhau with potato chips.  Don't get me wrong, this was the most delicious substance I had ingested in all of Portugal.  But it kind of blew my mind that one gets it from adding potato chips to frozen fish.

Then I went to sleep in the amazingly comfortable bed the couchsurfer had prepared for me.  Honestly.  I'm not going to say that anyone who thinks couchsurfing is a good idea needs to get their head checked.  That's a bit too much.

I will say that they're wrong.  And I have a SD card of amazing pictures and a belly full of cod fish to back me up.

Side Note: Stories from the hostel

Let me set the scene.

There's some beers being passed around.  I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone when I guy I haven't talked to brushes by me.  But before moving past, he puts his hand on my stomach and begins to rub it.

It took me a second to realize this was really happening.  And then another second for me to remove his hand and tell him flatly, "Don't touch me, man."

He responds by looking both surprised and hurt, neither of which he had reason to be, and he begins to move on his way.  But, before moving completely out of view, he steps back and says:

"I'm not gay."

Well, what's important is that he tries.

Portugal Day 4: That's right, I forgot I'm still traveling

So I'm back in Lisbon, and let me tell you...

I forgot I was traveling.  And that traveling = stress.  Even in a spot as cool as Lisbon, if there's stress to be had, I will find it and rub it all over myself.

I got myself a fancy hostel as a reward for being so thrifty, which I guess defeats the purpose.  The hostel is posh, with scrambled egg breakfasts, a lounge with jazz playing and iPads to rent.  Yes, iPads.  No, they couldn't just let you borrow a functional and portable laptop, they need to give you Mac products.  That's the kind of posh this hostel was.  Mac product posh.

But I didn't even stay for a minute, I jetted out to see more of Lisbon.  The woman at the hostel advised that I take care as Lisbon is not just number one in hostels.  It's also number one in pick-pockets.  So, that little seed planted in my mind, I started suspecting every person that got too close.  I shoved my hands in my pockets and gripped my belongings as if these thieves had the capacity to phase through the fabric of my pants and steal.

I went to the Tower of Belem, which used to be a fort and prison and is now a bastion for ripping off tourists. Five euros to get in and wait in hallways as other tourists took pictures of each other in front of cannons.  On the way back, I ran into a random band playing in the park.  And, unlike most random concerts I run into, these guys didn't sound like they were holding instruments for looks.  Even more, they were GOOD.

Then I went to get pastries at this place that was famous enough to have an aggravating line of whiny white tourists bustling at the door.  It's called a Pastel de Belem and consists of a little custardy mess held by a flaky crust.

It is delicious.  There's not another word for it.

Next came the mistake.  Across the river from Lisbon is another city (technically, apparently it's sort of included in Lisbon, but people in Lisbon don't like to admit it).  From the waterfront of Lisbon you can see a statue that looks reasonably sized from that far away, but is actually an enormous stone Jesus with his arms outstretched as if asking why the fuck did they decide to put him in the middle of no where.

Because that's where he was.  I rode the ferry over, waited a half hour for a bus, got harassed by crazies on said bus, wait another half an hour while the bus navigated narrow streets with all the color and variety of canned meat and then finally I arrived at the top of the hill.

And the park was closed.  That's right, an enormous park with beautiful views of Lisbon is closed before sunset because fuck Portugal.

I remembered, then, that I'm traveling and as a result, periodically I have to hate my life.  The bus driver laughed at me (good-naturedly) and I contented myself to take pictures from behind the gate and kick the door.

I spent the night in Barrio Alto and continued to be impressed by how cool it is.  Looking back over this entry all that happened was I saw some sights, listened to great music and ate pastry.  Which doesn't, I guess, give me any reason to be stressed.  Sometimes I forget that I'm on vacation.

Portugal Day 2 and 3: Now with Pictures!

I missed some blog entries due to surplus of coolness. Lisbon turned out get gradually more awesome the more time I spent there. My first night I went out to Barrio Alto, which means High Neighborhood which is not just a name. The neighborhood is, in fact, elevated. To get there you either take a graffiti-ed trolley or you walk up a monstrously long, monstrously steep hill.

Then you get this: 

So people climb.  Every night. Because Barrio Alto is amazing. The same twisty windy streets and architecture which just oozes history, but dotted with a bunch of bars selling cheap cocktails which people tend to take with them to the many scene overlooks that dot the neighborhood.

It's sickening how neat the area is. Like, actually makes me nauseous. And no, that's not just the cocktails, though they are delicious.

The past two days I spent in Lagos which is, in every sense of the word, a beach town. What locals there are, having no real place to go for vacation, are high-strung and kind of rude. All of the bars/restaurants have English menus with London prices. It still manages to have the cool streets and buildings, but underneath it's the same as any Jersey shore neighborhood. A land where time stand still during the winter and allows everyone to develop a keen sense of haughtiness that fizzes on through the summer.

Doesn't stop Lagos from being beautiful. 

There's not just beaches, but these enormous cliffs casting themselves in various dramatic formations out over the water. There are beaches to be sure, beautiful white-sand beaches with clear blue water. A number of the beaches can only be reached by boat and are therefore very secluded and therefore filled with naked people. I always am struck with wonder at how a woman with their boobs hanging out can just walk around like it ain't no thang. And how the husbands resist the urge to form a full body shield around their wife.

The hostel was filled with characters. And by characters, I mean 20-year-olds. I've finally hit the age where people stop saying “Oh, I thought you were older” and instead just nod and smile encouragingly as if I had just told them a story of how I conquered heroin addiction. Aw, you're so brave to be 26 and in a hostel.

I hung out with people until I remembered why I like to travel alone, and then I did. Not that I didn't have fun with them, though. Together we discovered why Port wine is so popular and later discovered why the streets are empty during most mornings. It was a beautiful thing.

But I'm ready to be back in Lisbon. I got a taste and I'm hungry for more.

Portugal Day 1: Lisbon and the Concussive Kisses

Sitting in a hostel eating fresh cherries and watching flies drift lazily about feels like vacation.

I arrived in Lisbon full of confidence.  I had found my way through Madrid, a city so twisty-turny it seems actively engaged in getting you lost.  I had traversed Marrakech, which is specifically designed to get you lost in the souks until you spend all your money.  How hard could Lisbon, the capitol of a country a third of the size of the others, be?

The answer is fuck Europe.  For some reason Europeans have decided they're too good for street signs.  All that carrying on an telling people where they're going, nooooo, that's too easy.  Too...American.

So after not sleeping for a night, I bumbled into a city that would make a mapmaker commit suicide, if he could ever find a cliff to throw himself off of.  The sidewalks are painfully narrow, the cars are blindingly fast and the streets are made out of what looks like bathroom tile.  It's slippery enough without rain, I have no idea  what people do when it rains.  Maybe they just all live downhill.  The rain's like some kind of new public transit system.

But once I showered and made myself a real person again, I started to really get into the city.  What Spain does with mountains, it does with giant plazas.  Lisbon is, I'm going to venture a guess, 50% plazas.  I ran into at least ten of them, all with enormous columns with Greco-Roman statues doing dramatic things.  One of them, which I now can't find the name of, is a guy uppercutting two horses.

I kid you not, it's the most badass statue ever.  There's two angry horses on either side of him flanked by two giant vipers.  The name was the spiirt of Portugal or something.  Apparently Portugal is hardcore.

This fact is borne out by the Archaeological Museum.  It's situated on a cliff (like everything in Lisbon) and fills the ruined shell of an awesome gothic cathedral.  The exhibits contain random bits of ruins as well as mummies and arrowheads.  I don't know why, there's not really any narrative to it, but it's awesome.  It's like an action movie museum.  You don't need to understand to go "oooo" and "ahhhh".

But anyway, the title of this post pertains to something I've noticed about both Spain and Portugal.  Spanish and Portuguese couples kiss VERY loudly.  I was sitting on a subway and I see this couple getting all close and I'm like isn't that cute.  And then their lips touched.

At first I wondered if it was terrorists, if they had set some kind of public display of affection bomb, a PDAWMD if you will, set to go off when the two lips met.  The sound was something like two wet microphones being slapped against each other, it was deafening.

 I've never been so nauseated and turned on at the same time.

Then I thought, think of the weapons potential here! Rather than drop bombs on other countries, all you have to do is line up a few amorous couples in front of the enemy.  The sound will be enough to end any struggle.

This realization has made me somewhat frightened by the double-kiss.  Now I know within Spainish and Portuguese lips hide explosive potential.  Kissing that close to my ear could deafen me instantly.  Who knows if they need a matching pair as a catalyst?

Oh yes, be afraid ladies and gentlemen.  Hispanic lips carry a terrible secret.  And who knows.

You might be next.

Special Edition: Sleeping at Airports or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and HATE EVERYONE.

You know, the mind is an amazing thing.

It has the capacity to come up with creative new kinds of charity, ways to convert one's one satisfaction into worldwide happiness.

It also has the capacity to turn even the most innocent, doe-eyed, kind-faced wizened old woman into Satan's best friend.

Given the right situation, everyone's an asshole.  Lying in a desperate fetal position on a cold marble floor while an announcer drones on in two languages about the importance of keeping an eye on your baggage...it's the perfect asshole storm.

It really wasn't that bad, in the end.  I mean, the sleeping part didn't really happen, but I did, you know, survive.  It was actually funny to walk past all the bodies strewn all around.  People tried everything, sleeping on their luggage, spooning their luggage, using their luggage to wall off their sleep space.  There was one group that found a standing circle of luggage wheelie carrier things and had formed a kind of group cuddle puddle.  I wondered, for a second, if I could join.  Whether an airport at 3am knocked down some fundamental social boundary.

It doesn't.  The woman at the cafe said I couldn't sleep in the chairs.  Presumably because I was taking up space from their VAST clientele.

Yes.  She was doing her job and she's an asshole for it.  You see what I mean?

Madrid Dia last: Touring the suburbs.

Stop being pretty, Spain.

It's annoying.  Like, every goddamn town and park is so scenic, up on hilltops looking over sprawling vistas, it's really just disgusting.  You try too hard, Spain.  Get over your beautiful self.

I got a bad case of the lazy today and instead of going to Roman aqueducts and castles and stuff, I went to the suburbs.  Madrid has a very interesting system for getting people in and out of the suburbs.  It's like the subway, except, you know, not sub.  It's a system of 8 or so trains that come regularly and are a bit more outfitted for long-distance travel than the subway.  It seems to work pretty well.

EXCEPT.

Whatever European design genius decided to make it so all the seats face each other.  Like there are four seats and two by two they face one another so you are forced into this awkward staring contest with the random shmuck across from you.  If that's bad enough, the seats are close enough that your knees are almost touching.  And I couldn't think of the translation for "Get your fat knees off me".

But the ride was short and I arrived in what looked like the most boring, dirty suburb ever.  A few blocks cured that, of course, and I ran into a bunch of medieval-type architecture and winding streets.  You know, like ya do in Spain.  I walked for a while, eating my bread and chorizo out of a plastic bag (I'm starting to enjoy it).  I eventually got to a park with, you guessed it, beautiful mountain vistas.

Like, stop it.  Enough with the gorgeous, sprawling mountains, Spain.

Madrid Dia whothehellknows: Too much Jesus

Today I came up with the question: How much Jesus is too much Jesus?

And I also answered it.  I have had so much Jesus today I'm suffering from an upset stomach.  And my palms and ankles kind of hurt.

It occurred to me that there are a buttload of pictures of Jesus dying.  Like, the guy seems to have done nothing of consequence in his life except come to the brutal end of it.  He's constantly on crosses, being taken down from crosses, coming back and looking somewhat confused.

Furthermore, he almost always looks shocked.  Shocked that the Romans are beating on him, shocked that he's getting crucified.  But if he's the son of God, shouldn't he have seen that shit coming? And if I were him, I'd be pissed.  I'd come back not with staffs and poetry but machine guns and machetes.  Your Saviour's back, and he's here to clean house.

Anyway, the reason I haven't updated is because fuckalll happened Saturday and Sunday.  I'm in Toledo now, which is a little town on a hilltop that should appear next to the dictionary definition of "quaint".  It's got these twisting medieval streets and this high Gothic architecture and everything costs so much money.  Really, it's 7 euros to get into the center cathedral and I'll be damned if I'm gonna spend my food budget for the week on some hoighty-toighty God shack.

But it's a very pretty city.  Honestly, just walking around getting lost and elbowing tourists makes the trip worth it.  There's gorgeous vistas in every directions, archways and plazas and it's all so nice I didn't even feel guilty eating my ham sandwich out of a plastic bag while the stench of two-day-old clothes repelled clean-shaven tourists.

Ah, travel.

Morocco Day Five: "Snail soup"

Last post was a long one.

So this will be short.

I just ate snail soup.  It's not what it sounds like.  That is, if what it sounds like is that they took snails out of their shell and mixed them with veggies and other stuff to make an interesting treat.

No.

There are snails.  In their shells.  Boiled in what looks like mud.

I ate it because I hate myself.  And snails.

Morocco Day Three and Four: "Been through the Desert, but the camel had a name"

So I smell like sand and camel shit.  It's truly second tier tourism.

Here's how I see it.

First tier tourism: Major cities and vacation resorts.  All the modern comforts, no street without a conveniently placed McDonalds or Starbucks.  There are signs, people tend to speak your language or have the capacity/motive to communicate with you, not so much traveling as it is spending lots of money to sleep somewhere else.

Second tier tourism: Out-of-the-way places and cities that, for one reason or another, are unattractive.  These reasons may include hot temperatures, pushy salespeople and a general feeling of desperation.  In these places, expect to have to wash your clothes by hand, trust that the chef is not taking a shit in your burger and communicate in a series of angry gestures to a half-asleep tourist police that you're lost and it's hot and you're tired.

This is traveling in the sense that you are seeing something different, which happens to be wholly uncomfortable and will make for great stories later when you're in a bar trying to impress someone who can't believe you're 26 and not successful or married.

Third tier tourism: Cities that people go to exclusively to drink penny beers and have sex with penny prostitutes.  You're lucky if you get a bucket of water to wash yourself with and even then that bucket of water is probably filled with Malaria.  You eat well, because you are a fat American tourist and can basically have people cook their pets for you if the price is right.

This desert trip was second-tier and edging on third-tier tourism.  I hop on a bus half-expecting to be surrounded by families and children and hating my life for two days.  Instead it's all young attractive women and everything's okay.  We get on the road and realize our bus driver only speaks French.  Okay, no problem, they wouldn't be this disorganized, there's probably a guide meeting us on the road.

No.  There isn't.

Cue a series of confusing stops where we vaguely understand (through the help of one girl's high school French) what we're supposed to do.  At each of these stops, there appears to be the same souvenir salespeople.  Like, the exact same.  They're even on the fucking mountaintops.  I've come to the conclusion that they grow out of the ground and bloom like flowers in the presence of tourists.

We arrive, finally, in the "desert" And by desert, I mean rocky wasteland dotted with bits of brush and powerlines.  Yes, I shit you now, our desert expedition took place in view of a highway.  And streetlights.  It existed in the limbo of second and third tier tourism, where hot showers were possible, but they were simply being denied to us.

The camel ride was not only not intolerable, it was a lot of fun.  Helped somewhat by the camel's faces themselves.  They manage to look both slightly bemused and completely idiotic.  Which is still one-up on how we all looked on top of them.  There was another group with three Mexican girls who looked like they were on the verge of being thrown off an animal moving a whole 2 miles per hour.

And me?

I had my hands so tight on the saddle that I think I fused my skin to it.

We got to the camp where we would be sleeping and were entertained by the "Berberes".  Now, I'm sure these guys authentically have been raised as Berberes, but the fact that they knew American TV shows and that a couple of them were wearing Guess jeans makes me doubt the authenticity of the whole thing.  The experience took on a feeling of them capering around for our entertainment, "Oh look at our ridiculous hats and how we play drums that look oddly similar even though we insist that they weren't made in a factory down the road."

The experience took a sharp turn towards what the fuck when the Berberes coaxed the women in the group away to play the drums in private while leaving the men alone by the fire.  It got even stranger when I decided to follow the women.  The berberes employed every trick they could to get me to go back to the fire "Oh, I need help with something by the fire, let's go!"

Now, men being sneaky about women is no big deal.  But these were men who were entirely in control of my chances of getting home alive.

So, yes, a little uncomfortable.

I did get home alive, in fact, in case you were wondering.  All in all, even though the trip seemed as though it had been organized according to the philosophy "Now that you've paid me, go to hell" the fact that the places we went were so beautiful overshadowed all poor planning.  So it was a great trip, I'd just advise they replace the Berberes with hot showers.

Morocco Day Two: "Welcome to Morocco!"

This hotel keeps being awesome.  My room is a beautiful little alcove with a window over the street and a huge double bed.  The hotel has a terrace that looks over the big square in the center of the city.  The guys who run it keep getting nicer.  One of them took me into the souks today and ran me around to the best shops in town, the ones down little streets where tourists fear to tread.

Like I'm so intrepid, I realized how walking around with someone to his family friend's store makes me essentially obligated to buy one thing or another.

And that brings me to "Welcome to Morocco".  It is, without a doubt, the phrase I have heard the most in my time here.  It's a close second to "Hello" or "Bonjour" or "Salaam".  It seems like whoever first translated this phrase meant it to replace "I have no idea what you're talking about" and "Fuck you".

I argued for twenty minutes with a guy over a price and finally got a somewhat reasonable price.  He gives me my change and says "Welcome to Morocco".  Which I think translates to "I just ripped you off, stupid tourist."

I got annoyed with a guy who wouldn't let go of my hand even though I didn't want a tour of the street I was walking down and he lets go and says "Welcome to Morocco".  Translation: "Suck it up"

I was trying desperately to explain that I wanted help buying a hat so I don't burn my face off in the desert and the guy at the hotel throws up his hands and says "Welcome to Morocco".  Translation: "I don't speak English."

So.

Desert tomorrow.  Involves a 1.5 hour camel ride.  When I have children, they're going to walk with a limp because of this.

Morroco Day One: Learning to say "No" in three languages

Wow.

Okay, so it might be I'm not cut out for long trips.  This might be because of any of the following reasons:
A) I end up living like a poor person (Example: Eating a cheese sandwich in front of the grocery because it costs money to sit down)
B) I don't sleep.  (Example: Twelve people in a room.  Odds are, at least one of them snores.  Loudly.)
C) I don't have a nail clipper one day.  Or shampoo another day.  Or a toothbrush another day.  Right now I don't understand why I'm being asked for money, beggars should be handing me dirhams.

Marrakech is incredible and so so different.  From anywhere I've visited I mean.  The people act differently, the back-and-forth of selling/buying rolls differently, the air smells differently (mostly donkey shit).  It's really exhausting just to keep my eyes open for all of it.

Also, Moroccans seem to live life on the edge.  That is, the edge of being run over by a moped.  There's all these motorcycles and things careening down the street.  And when I say street, I don't mean demarcated lanes for traffic in and out along with crosswalks and sidewalks.  No, by street I mean strip of dirt.  This ranges from the size of everyone passing comfortable to so narrow that a donkey and a moped are likely to cause pileup.

I think all the stress of travel has hit me because I'm exhausted and would like nothing more than a bed at home with a bottle of iced tea clearly marked with a price.  It didn't help I spent an hour or so today either convincing people I wanted to buy their shit or I didn't want to buy their shit.  Some people get pushy.  Like, aggressive pushy.  One guy actually put a fabric over my face and was surprised and upset when I was surprised and upset.

But this hotel has really been a saving grace.  It's 8 bucks a night and I have my own bed overlooking the street from a few stories up.  In other words, I can flop around, sleep and eat and nothing will bother me.  It helps that the guys that run it are super nice.  Within minutes of checking in they told me to come with them to the construction site of their new hotel and eat tagine.  The tagine, by the way, was incredible, zucchini, tomato and chicken.  After a week of eating ham and bread, this was manna.

So my plan is to spend a day here and then go on an overpriced trip to the desert.  We'll see.  Anyway, more to come, I'm sure, unless I get run over by a moped or garrotted by an angry scarf salesman (That's for you, mom).